

i 


a^^H^'.^ 


^^^^^ 




RRf 


PS 3531 


^^^^Fi'M^^^^^HSl-^ 


.E673 
C8 


II 


Kh 


^P'^^^|t'?-^EH 


IIMHiB 


1911 


HI 




■|^HH| 




Copy 1 




1 




^^^^w 






^imm'^'mtmmitm 



e,^j^^^..>v.,_^(... ^,j,^j,; v-fff— ^-;-;;; 



AST PERKINS 




Class /^^ d^xV 

Book ■£j^l3-^^ 



GopyiightN^ 



i?// 



COI'YRIGIIT DEPOSIT. 




COPYRIGHT. BY I'NnRK\\( M )I) ,>,: ^■^;I)EK^V001>. N, Y. 



A rusting- hulk of bronze and ^olil — 
Tlie Kaniakiira BiuidlKi. " 



^^CBUCIBLLT 



7 







c^C* 



Copyright, 1911, by 

CONSTANTINE MaRRAST PeRKINS 



/ 

(^CI.A'^I)2o:^G 



"It is the divine attribute of the imagination, that 
when the real world is shut out, it can create a 
world for itself, and with a necromantic power can 
conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant 
visions to make solitude populous, and irradiate the 
gloom of a dungeon. Sentiment has a kind of 
divine alchemy, rendering grief itself the source 
of tenderest thoughts and far - reaching desires, 
which the sufferer cherishes as sacred treasures, — 
the grains of gold in the Crucible of Dreams." 




FOREWORD 

In 1893, the author, then a lieutenant serving on the Sloop- 
of-War Marion, attached to the Asiatic Squadron, met near 
Saigon, Cochin China, Thong Vink-y, a Buddhist priest belong- 
ing to the Order of Dalai Lamas of Tibet. 

This Order was founded several centuries before the Christian 
era by the Abbot of the Sakya Monastery, and its members are 
followers of Gantama Buddha, the messiah and founder of the 
great Oriental religion. 

The disciples of this Order make their dwelling place in the 
fastnesses of the mountainous regions of the great plateaus of 
Central Asia, where they have, for many centuries, rigidly se- 
cluded themselves from the rest of the world. 

Their chief city, Lhassa, where dwells the head of the Order, 
is known as the home of the adepts of theosophy and mysticism, 
and is the Mecca of Esoteric Buddhism. 

Among other interesting articles in possession of the priest, 
was a moderate-sized brazier, or bowl of beaten brass, of antique 
and curious workmanship. The writer, attracted by the mys- 
terious symbols wrought upon it, offered to purchase the bowl. 
The owner refused to part with it for money, explaining that, if 



he did so^ he would bring upon his head a curse which he said 
would be incurred by any one who violated its sanctity or suf- 
fered it to be profaned by misuse. 

The vessel was regarded as sacred by the priests of the Order, 
and any desecration would work harm to him who disobeyed the 
inscription which the bowl bore. 

This inscription, graved in symbolic Oriental characters, may 
be freely translated as follows : 

"Stranger, whosoever thou art and M'hatsoever be thy creed, 
respect, O thou, this Urn of Immortality ! For here abideth the 
souls of Saints, dedicated to God and purified by the fires of 
penance. Blessed be him who reverenceth, and cursed be the 
hand that profaneth." 

The good priest, to whom the author had been privileged to be 
of service, offered the bowl as a gift, with the warning that the 
curse would be fulfilled unless the command should be strictly 
obeyed. 

In connection with the origin and use of the vessel he related 
the following story: 

The urn, known to be of very ancient origin, was taken from 
the mortuary crypt of the Dalai Lama Monastery at Lhassa, the 
forbidden city of Tibet. It was formerly used in determining 
the apostolic succession of the Grand Lama, or High Priest who 
presided over the Order, and who occupies, toward the Buddhist 
faith, the same position as the Papal head of the Roman Catholic 
Church. 

The succession of this ecclesiastic potentate is determined by 
what is known as the "Ordeal of the Golden Urn," a rite estab- 
lished by Tsong Kapa, the Buddhist Martin Luther, and one in 
which this brazier is said to have played a part. A description 
of this ceremony follows. 

When a Dalai Lama feels the approach of death, he must, in 
accordance with the mandates of the holy law, remain in a sitting 
position, Avith his legs crossed under him and his hands, palms 



upward in his lap, thus assuming the attitude of the meditating 
Buddha, with which all are familiar who have seen the great 
bronze image of Daibutsu, at Kamakura, Japan. 

Before him is placed a brazen bowl, or urn, with polished sur- 
face, holding burning incense, the fumes of which he must breathe 
as his spirit passes. 

This brazier is supposed to receive the departing soul, which 
would otherwise escape to the Buddhist purgatory. 

Breath having left the body, prayers for the dead are recited 
and other rites performed, during which the corpse is placed, as 
quickly as possible, still in a sitting posture, in a metal mortuary 
vessel which is filled with salt and sealed. It is then put in a 
crypt along with the mummies of his predecessors. 

The urn, into which it is believed the spirit of the dead Pontiff 
has passed, is then placed upon the temple altar and in it a 
sacred fire is kept perpetually burning. 

The method of choosing the successor to the pontifical See is 
curious. As heir to the dignity, his education begins in infancy 
and he is foreordained to the elevation of reincarnation. As is 
generally known, the chief tenet of the Buddhist creed is metem- 
psychosis, or belief in the transmigration of souls, the theory 
being successive higher planes of earthly existence for the spirit, 
until perfection is attained in freedom from sin. This is Nirvana, 
the Ultima Thule of the Buddhist Paradise, and to attain it every 
soul must undergo a purifying process through trial by fire; i.e., 
earthly sorrow. 

In the case of the Dalai Lama this ordeal is symbolized by the 
rite described. After the necessary purification in the burning 
crucible, his spirit is supposed to take up its abode in the body 
of some infant born shortly after the Pontiff's death. 

Various methods of ascertaining the identity of the infant who 
is chosen to represent the rebirth of the departed Lama are prac- 
tised. In most instances the Vedic law, written in the sacred 
book of Buddha, is appealed to, the official astrologers are con- 



suited, and it is the duty of the senior surviving high priest to 
interpret the traditions and occult mysteries which designate the 
successor. 

This he does by gazing upon the polished surface of the burn- 
ing brazier, accompanied by sorceries and incantations. 

Upon its gleaming brass, checkered and criss-crossed with 
mystic symbols and cabalistic characters, he reads the oracle re- 
vealed. The following poem is meant to symbolize this rite. 

As "High Priest of Portagas," the author offers apologies to 
the Grand Lama for appropriating this sacred rite to profane 
purposes and adapting it to the necessary modern setting. 

How the curse of the Enchanted Brazier has worked, the reader 
must discover for himself. 

"Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, 
Unreal and full of contradictions; 
Yet others of our most romantic schemes 
Are something more than fictions." 

C. M. P. 
Washington, D. C, January, 1911. 




"Around this inausoleiiin vvrc;ith\l 

Are ineni'ries of false, Hcklc queens 





PROLOGUE 

Upon my table stands a bowl 
Of beaten brass, in quaint de- 
sign: 
It holds the sorrows of a soul — 

The ashes of a heart once mine ; 
For, blended, here, with burnt in- 
cense, 
Are ruins of my shatter'd 
dreams ; — 
Incongr'ous, yet mute evidence 
Of blasted hopes and scatter'd 
schemes. 




*:y|^^''-^^ 









Behold yon ancient reliquary — 
Home of ethereal thought 
released, 
That which wert once the sanctu- 




Ofei 



Of saintly soul — the soul of 
priest! 
Wliat fateful office was its lot — 
The Hopes, the Joys, the 
Griefs, the Tears, 
The Aspirations — Loves ; — what 
not? 
The secrets of three thousand 







fi'kt 

J, f f'cj^^^d -^nd, destined, too, to perish, yoke 
//F^'^^^^feO With them my cherish'd hopes 
and dreams ; — 
To see them, each, dissolve in 
smoke. 
Whose curling column vaguely 
teems 
With Loves that I have fondled — 
kissed : 
I watch their dying ghosts arise 
And slowly dissipate in mist — 
To nothingness, before my eyes ! 


















I seek surcease in solace — 
smoke — 
That anodyne^ a good cigar, — 
As, idly — rashly — I invoke 
The slumb'ring Genii of this 
jar; 
I ponder sadly o'er the Past 

While meditating on my sin. 
And conjure from the shadows 
vast 
Visions of what might have 
been. 





>^^^l Visions fair— roseate— enwreath'd 
Witli Cuba's perfume and bou 
quet ; — 
Of Lotus bloom and incense 
breath'd — 
Inhaled from true leucothoe: 
In Smokers' Paradise, elate — 

Elysian and rose-empearl'd — 
I fling the gauntlet down to 
Fate 
And dream within my Wonder 
World. 



M«w.-->«^ ^ ~«»t<5m„.iSo 







^^ 



^^r^'^^^.^r:^^^^'' 







I So, sitting m my silent room 

I Alone with Memory, to-night, 

I I trace weird shadows from the 

I gloom 

I 

4 By fitful gleam of fire-light; 

I* And watch them as they form and 
grow. 
With mocking bow, or grimac'd 
I frown ; — 

Grim spectres of the Long 
Ago, 
Like Banquo's Ghost, that will 
not down! 





^ '^M^^ 







^j f 5i^,7) With artist's brush of vagrant 
^^5|^^'l whim 

y^sW-^!^ And inspiration from tobacco, 
~'^^i Dark pictures of the Past I limn 
And portents of the Future — 
blacker : 
Sketched with Satanic master- 
stroke, 
Are gargoyles, grotesque and 
bizarre. 
On canvas clouds of curling 
smoke — 
The spiral wreaths of my cigar. 






e^ A 



\\\ !t; 'f 1 >'¥/ \!kp. '--i^/:.. . ., j^ji 



''^V-^Ss^^'^1,. 





Herein reposed departed souls 
Of ancient Lamas claimed by 
death. 
Ascending from the burning coals 
Each waits the solemn Shibbo- 
leth 
Which summons it to renewed 
birth, 
Released from realms of Pur- 
gatory,— 
Reincarnated, here, on Earth 
Through endless aeons of ages 
hoary. 











K-^^^^^^^ 




-^^i'^^^^ 

*^-"^ 






^^^%.v^..4,£ ^^^ 



■'^ vS?^' 'I 



The magic of thy art I feel, 
Thou brazen thing of evil 









'■\^ x.,v;i^ V _ f. 





T-li^'iy""' **" '"'*' — l>->ri|,iiii[iiiiT^ 




It thralls me as it seems to steal 
Upon me, now, at midnight 
hour! 
What dismal destiny hath 
brought 
Thee from the shrouded tomb of 
Time 
To east thy shadow o'er my heart 
With ])ortent — augury of 
crime ? 









c- 






A riddle for three thousand years. 
Ominous oracle of the Past! 
^J Which knows Life's tragic tales 
and tears, — 
Where slumber shadows vague 
and vast: 
Some witch's caldron, or retort 
From ancient, mystic lab'ra- 
tory ;— 
What dark and fearful spells were 
wrought 
Therein, if thou couldst tell the 
story ! 





■'^I^N,<;^^^^::-N<-"<®25v;*^ 













A riddle like the Sphinx, unread — 

Unfathomable mystery ! 
O'er thee the cycles came and 
sped , — 
Forgot — unknown — thy historj 
Though Tubal Cain might have de- 
signed 
Thee, thou'rt so curious 
outre, 
Yet no soothsayer could have di- 
vined 
That thou'dst be thus profaned 
to-day ! 
















%M 




Time must, methinks, be out of 
joint 
Which finds thee, here, in ple- 
beian role: 
And /, at whom Fate's hand doth 
point, 
Doom'd to reincarnate my soul? 
Anachronism of an age 

Of superstition — priestcraft — 
seers — 
Turned back an ^on on Time's 
page 
When thou wert wrought — three 
thousand years. 








0^ K^^»fi^seanMetiS;sas!fJ^'ep^£r'^ 




-^!,#^.=_, ^ 











What elixir vitae once was 
brew'd — 
Or secret of Philos'pher's 
Stone, 
From serpents, bats, or vipers 
stew'd 
Within thy womb, could it be 
known ! 
Once used by Delphian Sibyl 
Turk— 
By Priest of Isis, or of Ptha, 
Their philtres, potions, — charms, 
to work — 
And now, — the ash of my cigar ! 









What is thy storied history? 
What incantations, long re- 
hearsed, 
Once worked with awful 
mystery. 
Hath made thee evil, — thing ac- 
curst? 
If thou couldst speak, what tales 
were thine; — 
What sorceries of occult art 
Are woven in that strange 
design 
That holds the riddle of thy 
heart ? 







'^^.^ 












1- « \ «^ 



1 1X^1% V'/ 



p.t -^ 






■ ^^^-.^^^-^ 

What alchemy of evil flings f^ 

Its spell around thy weird de- ^ 
sign ? 
Filched from the tombs of long- 
dead kings, 
What mystery, unsolved, is 
thine ? 
What necromancy dost thou 
boast — 
What secrets, dark, dost thou 
impris'n 
That, from thy brazen depths, a 
ghost 
Looms in the clouds of vapor 
ris'n? 



^-"■^^-^ 






,^=«^, 



V— ^^^Z'^ '-/^ 




of old. 
With solemn invocation — 



^"i V / / yj^ Where burned incense by Priest, 

(ft &^M^j^ prayer. 

Perverted, now, thou'rt used to 
hold 
The ashes of a dead 
I 




^■. ^x5?r 






5 ^. 



cigar 
The scraps — the odds-and-ends — 
refuse 
Of this and that ; — what strange 
contrast ! 
Thou wert not meant for such a 
use, 
Archaic relic of the Past! 









V 















{fv r ^-^^ 'W^j'^jf a 




A "Turkish Trophy" cigarette — 
A broken, ivory poker-chip — 
There, side by side, reproachful, 
yet 
Reminders of my treasure ship ; 
"Forget-me-nots," — capricious 
flowers ! — 
Tied with a bow of baby- 
blue: 
Souvenirs of happier hours — 
Perished ! — dead ! — a love un- 
true! 



-'M 













>^J^'^j:-'ji 



i\ 



/rpT"^^^^ W X 








The fragments of her photograph, 
Tlie reeking stub of a tigar, — 
Like echoes of a mocking laugh. 

Discordant, on my feelings jar; 
A pressed and faded "Beauty" 
rose 
That once so radiantly 
bloomed — 
The debris of my wrecked "Cha- 
teaux 
En Espagne," crumbled and 
consumed 



V.^^ -^/y Til 




€. ^^ 



-^ *" ' jfcT i Ta&u — ^3^^ 








^\>A 




A leap-year favor, soiled and 
torn, 
A ringlet of soft, chestnut 
hair; 

An amulet that I have worn 
Near to my heart; now it is 
there ! 
Each but a trifle — ah, but then, 
'Tis trifles make the 
universe ; 
For, are we not but puppet-men. 
Each, in the drama we re- 
hearse ? 






rifiv 





An envelope — a ring returned, 
A crumpled note, beginning, 
"Sir!": 
A love rejected — jilted — 
spurned ; — 
Burnt offerings of a worship- 
per! 
A subtle fragrance of perfume 
Still lingers 'round the note 
there flung 
And floats into the silent room. 
Like incense from a censer 
swung. 









f'^i $^'[ \ 





i^m; Mfr 'fflv- i 1 ».^'i i, ^'-iA 







>V '' 'i^/l 



Ax 



Still redolent of her presence rare, 

It perfumes ev'ry dying coal: 
It sweetens the pervading air 
And lingers, yet, around the 
bowl. 
Those cruel words their shadows 
cast 
Upon a heart they coldly spurn, 
Which, shrouded in the gloomy 
Past, 
Finds sepulchre in this grim 
urn. 










Wrecks — ruins of my rainbows — 
themes, 
Each conjured from "Per- 
fectos" smoked; 
The residue of vanish'd dreams, 

The kiss of Goddess I invoked: 
All find a grave within this urn; 
My ships are sunk, my castles 
crash : 
Behind me all my bridges burn — 
I watch them fall, a heap of 
ash. 



'^^■^^^h*: 





i/f;A 









,i&^' 







Xa^»-1L^^ 



> ?'.-«< 




Each gleaming ember pales 
dies; 
Each cinder is extinguish'd — 
grey; 
And, faintly, from the ash arise 
Their ghostly wraiths and float 
away. 
There seem to hover o'er the 
vase 
P'antastic, phantom forms that 
haunt 
Me; first a winsome, smiling face. 
And, then, a death's head — grim 
and gaunt! 













>-^ 



Aladdin-like, vague, threat'ning 
swarms 
Of Genii from the Under-world, 
Writhe — twine, in weird, fantastic 
forms 
'Mid clouds of vapor, upward- 
curl'd. 
'Neath swathed shroud, or hooded 
cowl. 
Fierce, forbidding features 
stare ; 
Hideous shapes of evil scowl ; 
Skulls, whose sightless sockets 
glare. 










im% 







if S ^ i 

tS — --- 

Relentless, — stern and grim — each 

face; 
Diaphanous, unreal, each 

wraith ; 
While ashen vapor from the vase 

Pales each spectre hue of death ! 

***** 

And, thus, I keep my secret trysts 
With loves — each one a mocking 
ghost, — 
In low'ring clouds or murky 
mists; 
They are my guests and I — 
their host! 









'^4$rV^i ■• gip-^'^;^ 



Etched on thy bronze, that "triple 
tau" — 
Symbolic circle, counter- 
crossed — 
Hath dragged my soul within thy 
maw, 
There to be damned ! — forever 
lost! 
Humiliated — hurt, my pride, — 
With crushed Ambition — 
scorned Desire, — 
Another heart scourged — cruci- 



Nineveh and 









Another record add to 
those 

Of vain ambition — stifl'd 
hope. 
Whose tragic fate thou doth dis- 
close 
Upon thy dismal horo- 
scope ! 
Another soul is sacrificed — 
Is chastened — purified by 
fire— 
With crown of thorns, like that of 
Christ, 
In embers of my funeral 
pyre 




















For love — for human love, I yearn, 
Like child that's crying in the 
dark: 

My raven and my dove return. 
With weary wings, to drifting 

Ark. 

* * * * * 

Across a page — a turned-down 
page— 
I've written "Failure" — not 
"Succeed" ; 
Though Time may heal, my grief 
assauge. 
My wounds still bleed — my 
wounds still bleed! 



,r-'^^'i^%v. 



}^%-^< 

'1//^"^,!? ' '^^ 














There, in the murky, volumed 
cloud, 
I seem to see, pass in review, 
Presentiments of Princes 
proud — 
Of History and Legend, too: 
Each Mogul, Caliph, Sultan, 
Shah, 
Maharajah and Emperor — 
Traced in the smoke of my 
cigar — 
Proud heroes, all, of every war. 



?f^- 






"^^^^^^Ss^ 








Upon thy brazen surface gleams 
The countenance of Kubla 
Khan; 
Then comes, as vagaries in dreams, 

Attila, grim barbarian : 
Swarm 'round him from within 
that urn 
His hosts of Huns, with bran- 
dish'd spears, 
And swiftly pass, each in its turn. 
The epochs of three thousand 
years. 













Round, — 
Briton, Saxon, Norman, Norse — 
William the Conqueror, laurel- 
crown'd, 
Armed cap-a-pie from helm to 
horse : 
Valois the Valiant, Charles the 
Bold, 
"St. George-for-England" Chev- 
aliers ; 
Louis the Grand, with Cloth of 
Gold— 
The chivalry of three thousand 
years. 

















^'^s^:^^^' 



■^1^ 



•'^^-^a^e^.. 





;~tO, „ J?^ \,=« .^nt^^r-^-,^ 








Godfrey, Richard Coeur-de- 
Lion, 
Who, still, with fervid fires 
burn : 
"Vive VEmpereur Napoleon!" — 

Imperial and taciturn. 
Pagan, paladin, Christiah 
saint, — 
With aid thy occult arts in- 
voke : — 
The pageant of the Past, I 
paint 
On canvas clouds of swirling 
smoke. 








o ^ 



-5 c 



=^ ;S' o £ 

. c o =" 

■f < :2 h 







•_^i?S««^*^^3Vw,f' 






"Ah, see! What dreadful vision 
o'er rue, 
What wealth of glory greets 
mine eye! 
What length of bloody train's be- 
fore me 
In slow succession passes by!" 
lit by the glare of Conquest's 
torch, 
A mighty host of horsemen 
comes ; 
Majestic its triumphal march. 
And strewn with slain — to muf- 
fl'd drums. 













.~ji -s ' ? 



' -'^'\t) ■'^^ ^^^^*^ phlanx, boot to boot, 
" '"""" Ki A splendid Sabaoth, it nears — 

^J 'Twixt ghastly ranks which line 
its route — 
The warriors of three thousand 



They ride with peal of trumpets 
clanging, 
Triumphing o'er the prostrate 
dead ; — 
But still'd each tongue that, once 
haranguing, 
Stirr'd on to fields ensanguined 
red. 






mws^m:-/A 





''^-x<^\^"\i i^xalt your torches, raise your 

eagles 
\ e Caesars ! — for your days are 
brief — " 
\\ hen Death is Conqueror, all 
that's regal's 
But vain as perishable leaf! 
Above Damocles' head sus- 
pended. 
High hung in air a naked 
sword ; 
Their days are gone, their sways 
are ended — 
Have passed away that conquer- 
ing horde. 














.y^s^ 






Helmet 'd Hun and turban'd Turk, 
Marauding Viking from the 
North: 
Behind each leader legions lurk 
And wait his word to sally 
forth. 
Red Eric, the Dane, and Charle- 
magne, 
Don Juan of Austria — stalwart, 
stern : — 
Like frost upon a window pane 
Each phantom sweeps across 
the urn. 









The Spartan band, the Persian 
hosts — 
Trojan and Carthaginian, 
And all the legendary ghosts — 

Egyptian and Athenian, 
From Pharaoh in princely 
pride 
To White Plum'd Henry of Na- 
varre — 
Rank upon serried rank, they 
glide 
Across the smoke of my cigar I 





;i 

















That picture fades; another — 



Proud Cleopatra, Egypt's 
queen. 
In royal barge of filigree, 
'Neath purple sails of silken 
sheen : 
Marc Antony her smiles beguile 

And languishes a captive slave, 
To dark enchantress of the Nile 
Whose kisses lure him to his 
grave. 







mwv 









Ah, what avails a kingly palace 
When Death's dark Angel's 
wing enfold? — 
The crown of gems, the crystal 
chalice ? — 
The pomp of power, the glint of 
gold ? 
And mortal man, ambition driven, 
Creeps crownless 'neath en- 
twined thorns: 
Pearls are but wounds that once 
were given ; 
Hope's but the grave that, open, 
yawns. 



'<'^:%5^ 






-_ "'9BP*V^£S^-HKfti(^ >*mlJ»»,5!«'t»WW*' 




rw, 



,„^-^' 







V 







"Then, down from throne of glit- 
t'ring splendor. 
The monarch will his sceptre lay ; 
He falls, and Sovereign Rome 
shall render 
Her homage to Usurper's sway." 
And I, though humble, I shall fol- 
low 
That ghostly caravan thou'st 
known : 
The dreams I've cherished — 
empty, hollow. 
As kingly crown — imperial 

throne ! 
***** 








llfim 





I shudder as I seize the urn 
And cast its contents in the 
grate ; 
So, perish every memory! — 
burn! 
Each ling'ring hope incin- 
erate ! 
***** 

Reflected on its polished brass 
The flick'ring firelight faintly 
gleams : — 
The Past is dead !— empty, 
alas, 
The brazen bowl that held my 
dreams ! 




^''V :' .^^0' 



^fi0k%Hf 



,^ _ ~Ww*^SMt— «**B ' 




'^^. 






'-^(L tt, 






i <■ 






-4 



Dost thou possess that cursed 
spell — 
Black art of Mephistopheles; 
The magic of the Prince of 
HeU, 
Brought here across the Seven 
Seas? 
Thou, who hast been from dark- 
ness hurl'd, — 
Damned by Mephistophelian 
art, — 
L pon this Twentieth Century 
world, 
To crucify my tortured 
heart ? 



m 




m 





M.-' 




Art thou the silent., brooding 
Sphinx 

Who gazes into endless Time; 
Who. mould'ring Past and Pres- 
ent, links — 
With wisdom — countenance sub- 
lime? 
From out those ashes, cold and 
grev. 
Can. Phcenix-like; my hopes re- 
turn: 
The castles — dreams of Yester- 
day — 
Or are they buried in that 
bourn r 








^^z-'^^?^^^^'^'^^^"^"''^*'''^^""'^'^'*''^^^^ 




■", \ ■*,>, ■!> \i. \ 




Speak, melancholy Oracle ! — 
I ask of thee — abjure — 
implore ! 
Thou, who hast lore historical, 
Peer through the Future's dark- 
en'd door! 
Tell me, can they return to 
me — 
The dreams — the hopes of Yes- 
terday, 
Or dead for all Eternity 

These senseless ashes, cold and 
greyi 






T^\ 



yT%\% X 










-% 



'J 



These were my playthings — treas- 
ures, toys, 
And, here, they lie, all smoul- 
d'ring ash ! 
Vain, evanescent, fleeting joys — 
But empty dross — a heap of 
trash ! 
Vv e, who are grown up men and 
women, 
Are we not mere children, 
all. 
With heart-burnings and eyes 
brimming 
For — just a broken, sawdust 
doll? 







^i-;.-^.s*,^; 



^ 



1 fi '' ^ 



}m^^ % 



;■§=§" 





^^^, 



^^53S 







^ / 






■m^A 












.^^ 



X 



i 










And, so, thy spell clings to thee 
still, 
And, henceforth, must, forever- 
more ; — 
Thy destiny thou dost fulfil, 

Thou Thing accurst, of mystic 
lore! 
I've dabbl'd with thy evil cult — 
The curse Black Art hath o'er 
thee cast, — 
And met the fate that waits 
insult — 
Damned relic of unhallow'd 
Past! 















Ah, sad indeed it is to keep 
Reminder grim of jo\s once 







To know those brooding phantoms 
sleep 
Within that bowl of quaint de- 
sign; 
Yet, its enchantment holds me 
still 
And binds me to that gloomy 
jar — 
I feel its magic thrall and thrill 
Whene'er I smoke a good 




*a«(«ew(*=*?Siw:P- "WFT'^SS,. 






EPILOGUE 

Long years have pass'd : I now return. 
And still that horror in my sight! 

I contemplate that shrouded urn — 
The dreadful emblem of Time's might. 

Again her image, — See! 'tis there! — 
There, in the polish'd brass, it gleams ! 

The glossy ripples of her hair — 

Such glorious hair ! — See how it streams ! 

I peer again with anxious stare; — 

A death's head, fleshless, now it seems ! 
* * * * * 
Begone! No more! — I cannot bear 

It, cursed Crucible of Dreams ! 
An eyeless socket, yawning dull. 

Where once the lamp of life did burn; — 
The hid'ous grinning of a skull; — 

A vapor from my funeral urn! 




JUL 31 JSJI 



On, 



"^Py del. to Cat. Div. 
"" S, ,3,, 



